


the present winter is worth an age if rightly employed

by HappinessIsBlau



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cunnilingus, Other, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 07:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21424810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappinessIsBlau/pseuds/HappinessIsBlau
Summary: Black coffee, two sugar, one creamer.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 82





	the present winter is worth an age if rightly employed

**Author's Note:**

> **11/21 BIG EDIT**
> 
> So, after sitting on it for a hot sec, I realized that this is not up to my own standards and I really, really don't want to take it down to put it back up again, so I just overhauled. If you've read it before, I hope you're pleasantly surprised - I hope it's more in-character and easier to read. If you're new here, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> \---
> 
> What's up, it's me, back at it again. 
> 
> First and foremost, please forgive any pacing/tense issues. I'm not sure if I like how the grammatical tensing (shh, that's a word) turned out but, y'know. Reader is afab and femme, mention of wearing a dress. He/Him pronouns for Bucky, obvs.
> 
> I've been fascinated by Bucky since I've been watching the MCU again with my brother and sister in law. Characterization here, by the way, is heavily inspired by Higgins' Winter Soldier Run. (I read the first five issues three times through while reading this. Go read it if you haven't.) While that then makes this a Marvel Comics and not a Marvel Cinematic Universe fic, I tagged it as both since I figured it wasn't like, outrageously out of left field. 
> 
> And who doesn't want to bone Sebastian Stan?
> 
> Oh, and the title is taken from _The American Crisis_ by Thomas Paine.

The look on the face of the waitress who had been on shift before you said it all - she was dull-eyed bored and her uneasy glances behind you to the blizzard that was coming down outside made her not so anxious to leave, despite the shift coming up a bust. If it weren't for the fact that you lived close by, you'd have had to call in anyway. Despite the low volume of the speaker in the corner, your instinct of half-listening for pertinent information from the ancient, fuzzy relic told you that there was something on about a record blizzard.

There was one customer seated in the dining room. A complementary glass of ice water was sitting untouched, sweating from the heat of the small room in perfect poetic symmetry to the arctic weather outside. The masculine figure was reading a book with complete intention. They didn't acknowledge you when you walked in or when your coworker told you that there had been no other customers that entire shift.

Said coworker gave you a smile that was a half-pitying before bundling up and leaving you to the one other occupant of the room.

You brushed the snow off of your coat and hung it up carefully, clocked in, and made your way over to your companion. He didn't look up from the pages, though there was no way that he could miss you standing in front of him, casting a shadow over both him and his book.

You paused for a moment, caught between being polite and leaving your customer to his reading. His expression was neutral, his dark eyebrows furrowed everso slightly, eyes following the words on the page.

You cleared your throat and brown eyes finally met yours and he looked you up and down, carefully, before putting the marker in his book and setting it aside carefully. You were suddenly self-conscious of your uniform -- a little classic diner waitress dress that your boss insisted upon. You pulled a bit at the loose stitching on the hem of your apron.

While you had his attention, you took his order. Black coffee, two sugar, one creamer. You'd even give him good coffee, the kind you saved for your polite regulars, not the watery Folgers that was reserved for Joe Publick.

You found yourself watching over the breakfast bar as you added his sugars and cream. He watched the snow out the window with disinterest -- you figured, from his bored expression, that maybe he'd seen it snow like this before.

He thanked you when you brought it over to him, and didn't wait for it to cool before picking it up with a gloved hand. He sipped and turned his eyes on you, then, and you could feel the brush creeping into your cheeks from the attention. Having someone look at you intently was a bit unnerving when you were used to serving bleary-eyed drunks on third shift.

It would be weird to return to behind the counter. There was nothing to do -- your coworker had wrapped all the silverware, done all the cleaning, and everything was prepped. It wasn't like there had been anyone to undo it anyway if this was the only customer that had been in today.

He seemed harmless enough, you figured, leaning across the table to get a look at the book he was reading. The book he seemed so engrossed in was Milan Kundera’s _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_, which you had only recently finished.

"I just finished that one myself," you tried, hoping that maybe you'd get into a nice conversation to cure your almost inevitable oncoming boredom, "and I really liked Tereza's character. The idea of meeting and falling in love with a man so suddenly has a really romantic appeal to me, I guess."

"No kidding," he said finally, sitting back in his chair a little bit. He had obviously been sitting here a while -- you heard the pop of his shoulder as he rolled it, and he rubbed on the other one with the grimace of someone who felt the cold in their bones. He was also completely free from the snow that was unavoidable outside.

You bit your lip, then, in appreciation. Even through the layers you could tell how nicely toned this guy was. You were half-tempted to run your fingers through his hair, but that'd be weird and certainly inappropriate.

You excused yourself with the practiced ease that only those who have performed food service duties know, and locked yourself in the freezer for a solid minute to get your head on straight. When you finally went back out to his table, his coffee mug was empty, and he handed it to you. Your fingers brushed against his bare ones (who wears just one glove indoors?) when he held it out to you and your traitorous heart started beating faster.

"It's looking pretty cold out there," you heard yourself saying, always using small talk to deflect. 

"I've seen colder," he shrugged, proving your theory right, and you hadn't realize that you both were still holding onto the stupid coffee mug. You sat it back down on the table and he surrendered it, watching you in earnest curiosity, as you sat across from him at your table.

"I don't meant to crowd you, I'll leave if you want me to. I just have nothing better to do at all other than watch you from across the room, and I don't want to seem weird," you try, because honesty is the best policy, and tried not to be too hopeful that he wouldn't just tell you to get lost.

"I'm afraid I'm not very good company," he said carefully, and you shook your head.

"Buddy, you're pretty and you're polite and I'm used to neither. I'd stay in your company for as long as you'd let me," and for emphasis, you set your hand on his in what you hoped was a welcome gesture.

He watched you do this and took your hand in his ungloved one, studying your palm like he was trying to learn your life story from it.

You sat up and leaned across the table, hoping you weren't reading things wrong, and he sat up to meet you in a kiss. This was a first. Kissing customers was generally a no-no, but you were the only one in here today, and the storm wouldn't produce any more people (you hoped). He kissed back as if he'd been impatiently waiting for you to kiss him in the first place. His lips were soft and warm and were sweet with the sugar and creamer from his coffee and this close to him you could smell the honey and ginseng shampoo that he used. He pulled away after a moment, cupping your face in his hands, and there was something so intimate in that gesture that it left you breathless.

You must have looked dazed or something because he opened his mouth and furrowed his eyebrows like he was about to apologize. 

“Ah, no, it’s just - the table’s digging into me weirdly because I’m bent over like this,” you supplied quickly.

You used the pause to get up quickly, pull the blinds, lock the door, and flip the sign on the door to Closed. If someone was still persistent enough to try to get in, you’d have been able to hear them.

“No one’s gonna come in anyway,” you said more for your benefit than his but he was still polite enough to acknowledge you with a nod.

It was strange walking back over to him. You felt that you’d have to acknowledge that you wanted to kiss him again -- it couldn’t just be spontaneous this time. He didn’t let the moment hang in the air, though, and stood to his full height, catching your face in his hands again and pulled you into another kiss.

The tenderness made you feel like he was an old lover who knew you well, even though you hadn’t met him before that you could recall (though there was something everso vaguely familiar about him). His kisses went from sweet to searing, more tongue and teeth than anything after a minute, and you could feel his heartbeat against your chest despite the layers of clothes you were both wearing. He’d pushed you against the table and the way you were half-draped over it was absolute murder on your back but you weren’t going to be the one to disrupt what was going on. 

As if he was telepathic (and and at the time you considered that he might have been), he lifted you carefully onto the table and nudged open your knees. 

“Is this okay?” he asked quietly, and you nodded quickly, not trusting your own voice to answer yes. He gave you one more kiss, gentle and sweet and soft once again, before putting his hands on your knees and eased them open.

Oh, wow, had you known that you’d get laid today, you’d have wore nicer underwear, but alas. You vocalized this and he actually laughed. He pulled your underwear down and handed them back to you politely. You just kinda balled them up and set them on the table. It occurred to you then that these were activities that were incredibly unhygienic to do on a restaurant table but you pushed that thought aside immediately when he knelt in front of your open knees and pulled his long hair into a loose bun. 

Whatever karma that you'd put out into the world to get this back had to have been incredible. He hadn’t even touched you yet but you bit down hard on the knuckle of your left index finger as you felt his breath against you.

It was nothing like feeling his tongue pressed against you, though. This boy was a natural. If your mind was able to concentrate on anything, you’d have figured that the patterns his tongue was drawing against your clit had to be an alphabet, and if you were familiar with Russian you’d have recognized it as cryllic, but your mind was far from all that.

Instead, you were lacing your fingers through his incredibly soft hair, biting down on your lip to keep from making a ridiculous racket, but being far from quiet. Every motion of his tongue, every kiss, every suck and gentle nibble made you moan and coo embarrassingly.

He shouldn't have bothered putting his hair up because you had managed to pull it all out of the sloppy bun anyway, and you pulled it hard enough to make him yelp as you came, hard, as he sucked your clit with expert attention, letting you ride out your orgasm against his mouth.

Before you could catch your breath enough to apologize for yanking his hair, he was back up to your face again, kissing you with incredible enthusiasm. The fact that you could taste the tangy evidence of yourself on his lips was better than any wet dream you'd ever had.

Warm fingers replaced his mouth against you, making you inhale sharply because you were still everso sensitive. He kissed your cheek as he undid his belt and you figured you'd just slow him down if you tried to help him.

He pulled away just to watch himself enter you and you watched his face instead of anything else until you had to turn your head to compose yourself. Your toes curled as he settled in to hilt.

“‘s this okay?” he asked quietly and you nodded, again not trusting yourself to say anything, but you put your hands against his lower abdomen to keep him still for a minute as you adjusted to the very pleasant fullness. 

You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him closer, and he settled over top of you comfortably. He was a pleasant weight and the position allowed you to kiss him more so that’s what you did as he set a nice, steady rhythm that wasn’t overwhelming and reached between you with those wonderful fingers to rub wide, gentle, unrushed circles against your clit, varying just enough to keep it interesting.

At this point, you were wholly incoherent, swearing and whimpering and pleading. His deep, measured breaths are coming out increasingly more and more shaky. His languid motion picked up speed and the curve of his dick inside you hit your g-spot with the perfect amount of force each time that you felt like you were going to explode. 

“Cum in me,” you whined, taking a page out of his book and lifting his chin so he was looking into your eyes as you beg, “cum in me, it’s fine, I - I have an IUD, it’s fine, please, fuck, please?”

“Are you sure?” he stuttered on the last word, changing the direction of the circles he was still rubbing against you.

Before you could manage an answer, you lost yourself in your orgasm, tightening against him and coming entirely undone, lost in the little death. Your automatic reaction was to tighten the vice grip you had on his biceps, but the one doesn't give like a flesh arm should.

You couldn’t have asked about it if you wanted to because your brain still hadn’t come back to you yet but he pulled you tightly against him as he came hotly inside you, whispering your name like a prayer, and for a moment you considered whether or not you told him your name before you realize that you had on a nametag.

He held you there for a minute, just long enough for your thighs to start burning from the position of being held open by his weight ontop of them, and things started to become a bit sticky-cold and clammy. Nevertheless, you waited politely and awkwardly for him to come back to himself. He did finally, and withdrew as carefully as he could manage. 

“Restroom is around the corner and to the left,” you heard yourself say, and he shuffled his way there.

You sat up, taking a minute to gather yourself, using your underwear as a towel to clean up. Finding your feet, you noticed the knocked over (but surprisingly intact) coffee mug that you hadn’t heard hit the floor. 

The book, of course, was considerately placed right next to where you’d been fucking, where it wouldn’t get knocked or jostled. You opened the cover.

_To Bucky,_

_Here’s another one for your growing library. I know you’re not into philosophy but maybe you’ll like this one._

_Steve_

Bucky? Steve? There was something familiar to those names that you couldn’t place. You heard him walk back into the room and you turned quickly as if caught misbehaving, holding the book out to him. He took it.

“Um, hey, thanks for - for a nice time,” you stammered, not sure the protocol here. 

“Feeling’s mutual,” the pink of his cheeks was quite humbling, “I needed - I needed that. Thank you.” 

He pressed a kiss to your lips again, pushed something into your hand. Tucking the book into his jacket, he unlocked the door and took his leave.

Watching him walk, you felt a stronger pang of recognition but you still couldn’t place it. You turned to what he pressed into your hand -- a $100 bill. You’d forgotten about his bill, but it would have come to $2.00 or so for a cup of coffee. You made change and tucked your tip gratefully into your apron and made quick work of getting rid of the table that you’d just had a hand in desecrating. 

Someone clearing their throat behind you took you out of your reverie. It was the cook - they’d been here the whole time, of course, hearing (and probably watching) what’d been happening through these paper-thin walls. 

Before you could say anything, they cut you off.

“Do you know who the fuck that was? That was Bucky Barnes! The Russian assassin guy!”

The newscasts from the past few years suddenly came back to you -- the grainy security camera videos, the pictures from the 1940s from all of the public appearances, the outrage from supporters and condemners both.

Bucky - as in Bucky Barnes. Steve, as in Captain - Fucking - America.

You just had incredibly good sex with Bucky Barnes, former assassin. You grabbed his metal shoulder, he ate you out, he - he just came in you.

You wondered if your boss would believe the cook when they explained what happened. You gathered your things quickly and wrapped up for the cold. Better to walk out than get fired, anyway. 

It hadn’t been more than a minute since Bucky had walked out that door, and in snow like this he couldn’t have gotten all that far, after all.


End file.
